Colors for a Ghost
by Poetic Espionage
Summary: The life, death, rise, fall, and afterlife of Tate Langdon. Told in a series of chapters dealing with each part of his "life" starting with his childhood, illustrating how he came to be the psychopath we all love and how one color changed his world.
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

I dreamt in black and white for what seemed like forever so that the hues and pigments of the world would not distract me from the inevitable - the light and the darkness. My own mental metaphors for the war that constantly waged inside my head. Primarily the darkness though, which seemed to consume my every thought. It was easier that way - to be blinded from what I couldn't have, couldn't partake in -the color of the world, the life, the vivacity. Like the color of the leaves as they changed in the fall, the color of the sky just before it rained or the color of grass blades silhouetted against the sun. I remembered them before, as a child, and how the menacing darkness of the clouds would make me shudder as thunder ripped through the sky. Also, I remembered how the warmth of the sun would graze across my face, leaving yet another perceptible color of light pink as it danced through the shoots of grass.

It was painful to ignore the beauty that the world had to offer, but it was more painful to let my eyes see something that wasn't tangible anymore. And the sad thing was that I couldn't even wallow in my own melancholy because it was my fault that I couldn't enjoy these memories. I didn't _deserve_ to partake in the beauty of the world. The light of life, the glimmer of innocence, of curiosity, of hope had vanished and wasn't returning. I was consumed by the overwhelming corruption of the world - the darkness. It had me and wasn't prepared to surrender even if I hadn't chosen to just dream in black and white.

Yet something was about to change; something was different; something intangible just like the elusive life I longed for, but nonetheless, the change was perceptible. Suddenly in what seemed like an eternity of darkness, my dreams became flooded with color. The subject matter of my "dreams" was still made of what most considered nightmares, but everything was saturated with color. Blood was dark crimson. Fire a brilliant redish orange. The ocean deep blue. And the most brilliant of them all was the color of the sky over the ocean. The same sky that I used to look at while musing the thing I missed most in whatever Hell I was trapped - life.

It was the same color that I remembered as a child right before it stormed although far less menacing. But nonetheless, it still had a daunting powerfulness to it, a quiet strength that made the black, ominous clouds, stinging with lightning, envious. Despite it's darkness in shade, it was different. It made everything in my dreams, even the stars, seem brighter, but everything still paled in comparison to its brilliance. Birds were the only creatures fearless enough to fly within its gaze , never migrating from its sight. They reveled in its brilliance.

It was beautiful, and I was determined it was my new favorite color, in contrast to the blackness that previously had made the carnage disappear. This change was a color that only someone like Keats could capture and describe mediocrely at best.

I slumbered every night just in hopes of catching a glimpse of that breathtaking color, the one that had given my ghostly existence the feeling of hope, of light, of life.

"While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,  
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;  
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn  
Among the river sallows, borne aloft  
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;  
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;  
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft  
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;  
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies."

Yes, something was about to change that would never allow my dreams to be the same.

My new, favorite color.

_Violet._


	2. Chapter 2: Colorblind

I kill the people I like, relishing in knowing that they are being saved from the filth of the world. The filth that like me, consumes the good, the clean, suffocating & drowning them. The drones of society that hide behind their corporate lives, feeding on the innocent and starving the hungry to make a goddamned buck, so as to feel powerful. They think they know me; think they understand. But, I'm no savior, no Messiah. However, unlike the goddamned rest of the sheep in this world, I am not not blind to the horror show that exists behind every fake smile that covers a bloody scar. I see the garbage and refuse that rolls behind every tongue, watching it fester and spew forth from brain-dead followers of conformity - comfortably masticating their recycled notions and feelings, as if they could feel. I pray that they choke on them, so that this endless cycle of bullshit finally stops. But no, it never does.

I need to take action; need to save the clean from the piss that runs in the streets. I need to baptize the world in their blood, so that the world can finally be free and find redemption. I know there's good and evil, allegedly a God and a Satan, but I'm colorblind to which side I belong. All there is is light and dark, always in a constant battle, pulling me & pushing me.

No, I am no angel;

no prophet.

I'm a psychopath,

a monster,

a goddamned son of a bitch,

in the most literal sense.

I am Tate Langdon, and my life has rapidly been losing color.

**WHITE**

I always somewhat felt hatred toward my father, even before he left me with my cocksucking mother. Abandoning me to live on my own with the greedy bitch had made me detest him, yes, but what made me even more infuriated was how he had treated Addie and Beau, when we were kids. "Abominations" were his half-facetious terms for them, claiming that only something as hideous and fucked up as their existence could be the product of such an unholy union, as his to Constance. No doubt, Hugo felt very close to how I did about Mommy Dearest.

However, Hugo was different towards me as a child, looking at me with different eyes, seeing that I was not like my siblings, physically or mentally. And because of his behavior, I could tell that I scared the shit out of him.

Outwardly, I, unlike, my siblings, was an average child, rather than the monster that Hugo called Beau, or the retard that he called Addie. But, inwardly, I was even more set apart from them. I did not possess Addie's fearless strength and iron will. Nor did, I possess Beau's humility and unfaltering innocence. I was made of a different composition. Hugo saw this in me and looked at me with fear. So afraid that he looked as if he was staring into the eyes of Satan himself.

He was afraid alright. Afraid that I was more my mother's son than anticipated, and that I had just the right combination of his and Constance's blood to concoct poison. Essentially, I was the worst, most dangerous part of each of them, packaged into a child's form.

The truth was that I loved them both, desperately, always seeking their attention and approval, but fearing them all the same. Yet, I felt like I should hate them. Hate them for who they were, what they did, what they created. I hated them for creating a monster like me. A monster whose blood, composed of both their DNA, generated friction as it scraped along the insides of my veins – burning them, setting them on fire.

Yes, my blood was poisonous, venom – all by association.

My mother was a bitter hag and my father a cheating, perverted bastard – a match made in Hell. Constance wanted to be a movie star, but all chances of that were shot when she got knocked up by a low-life "agent", who promised to make her famous. Like the dumb bitch she is, she believed him; believed that screwing him would somehow allow her to wheedle her way into Hollywood and make her talented. Sure, martyr Constance would never admit such things, but my grandmother obviously, upset with her whore daughter, didn't have a strong enough muzzle around her grandkids. Apparently, she was all but pleased when 16-year-old Constance showed up on her doorstep with a baby girl – Alex.

I couldn't understand what my mother and Grandma Celia were always arguing about, but Addie and I weren't stupid. We knew that Alex was different than us, almost like we were the outsiders, and she was the only one who knew the secret – the secret to escaping the Hell whole in which we grew up. She was too good to be trapped in the insanity of such a fucked up family. Addie and I knew she belonged someplace else – someplace away from us all because at least she did not belong to _both _of our parents, and she had a chance to escape.

Hugo regarded her differently too, almost in the same manner he treated me, but in a positive light. He favorited her, probably because she was not in the least like him and because she was Constance's least favorite child. Alex reminded Constance of everything she lost, but she was special. It was as if every dream my mother had had as a girl, now broken, was manifested in this little girl. Somehow, out of all the filth and shattered ambitions, something pure was born, and Constance resented her for that. Hated that this small child had stolen her dreams and had garnered the attention of her husband.

Hugo loved Alex dearly because she was everything my mother and his children were not, but he loved her a little too much. And my mother refused to share the affections of any man with any woman in her house.

Yes, Hugo was no better than my mother, if not worse.

"_You should never hurt someone if you love them – never." _


	3. Chapter 3: Going Grey

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Please be aware that this and the proceeding chapters contain instances of child abuse, bad language, and violence. Sexual abuse is also alluded to so please view at your own discretion.

* * *

Hugo and Constance moved into the Murder House with Alex - 14, Addie - 11, and me, the child wonder, in 1982, when I was just five-years old. That was the same year Beau was born. With the sold sign in place, it was about to become a very crowded house. Not to mention our welcome mat practically had "Fucked Up Bullshit" written on it, and our gate a "Beware Racist, Murdering Bitch" sign.

As if things weren't already screwed up enough, Constance had decided to try and save her marriage, or rather entrap Hugo by getting pregnant. She believed that Beau was going to be the savior of her less than holy union, despite Hugo's numerous pleas for her to have an abortion. However, when Beau was born, it only tore her and my father farther apart. Big fucking surprise.

The birth of their baby boy, ravaged by the birth defects and deformities caused by what one can only imagine to be all of her goddamned binge drinking, led Hugo farther astray. As they grew increasingly more bitter toward one another, Addie and I became mere fixtures in the Bates household. Mother continually got shitfaced, while whining about how unfairly she had been punished by God, and father turned his affections elsewhere. At the same time, Addie and I noticed the special treatment Hugo gave Alex, but we kept quiet, as any curiosity was quickly quelled by the brandishing of the bastard's leather belt.

However, most of the time, I was left alone, as both Addie and Alex went off to school. This gave me the chance to explore the house, which surprisingly, despite my crazy family, seemed like home. I had never been very outgoing and because of our age differences, I never really felt like I fit in with my siblings. Alex and Addie were beautiful girls, no matter what my parents or the other kids would say, interested in girl things and making friends. And Beau was just a baby, too busy being mourned over to play with. Plus, I never really had many "outside" friends, as I was generally very reserved, preferring to write imaginary books with imaginary letters and look at the pretty illustrations in the Audobon field guides that my grandmother had gotten me for Christmas, rather than playing with the neighborhood kids. Most of them were little shits anyway, who picked on Addie for her learning disability and me for my stutter, relentlessly.

Regardless, I tended to stay inside and discover all of the little nooks and crannies of the house, while most of the other kids were outside playing games or beating the shit out of each other over who got to the base first. I loved exploring and would often times wind up falling asleep at my latest destination. I also used my secret passageways as hiding spots whenever Hugo would sneak around with one of his run of the mill whores or when Constance would call for me in her vodka-soaked voice with paddle in hand. It came in handy to know my way around when things got too crazy and the only way to escape all the arguing and shit was to run away.

But things changed later that year, when Addie and I were up in the attic one night. She was teaching me "Crazy Eights", while we were making goofy baby talk, listening to Beau coo in his bassinet at the sound of our game.

As I was just about to change suit and number, we heard Hugo laughing from the bottom of the staircase and the muffled sounds of Alex being pushed forward. Addie and I hurriedly moved into the shadows, frightened of being discovered. Alex and my father had reached the attic landing _just_ as we had found an appropriate hiding spot.

_Getting blurry. _

Alex looked at my father with fear, as he began to duct tape mouth shut and tie her hands. I started to cry out "Stop!" when I saw the tears rolling down her cheeks, but Addie stifled my cries by pulling me farther back and putting her hand over my mouth. She whispered for me to close my eyes and cover my ears. She covered her own, while shielding my eyes with her arm as she held me.

But it wasn't enough. I could still hear Alex's cries.

_Like father, like son, I suppose. _


	4. Chapter 4: Novacaine

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Please be aware that this and the proceeding chapters contain instances of child abuse, bad language, and violence.

* * *

I was so distraught from what I had witnessed that after Hugo had pushed Alex – still weeping – down the stairs, I sprinted away from Addie and ran down to the basement, one of my favorite hiding places. Tears flooded my face. I couldn't understand what had happened, but I knew it was something awful and I wanted to disappear.

* * *

"_Momma, momma..."_

Of course, my douche bag mother didn't appear, but I did hear the faint footsteps of someone approaching me from behind my hiding hole in between two old shelves. I shuddered back in fear that Constance, or even worse, Hugo, had found me, but was rather surprised to hear the nasal, yet soothing voice of a woman, speaking gibberish about a baby.

"Where is my sweet boy?," she obsessively cooed. I retracted farther back and silenced my whimpers, but yet she still found me, as if I had a goddamn beacon on my head.

"My sweet boy, is that you? I've been looking for you. Where did you run off to?"

Almost instinctively, I walked toward her outstretched arms, completely mesmerized. She hugged me tightly, and I began to sob uncontrollably into her shoulder. She held me close, stoking my hair and whispering soothing words into my ear.

"My dear child, life is too short for so much sorrow," she said pulling me out of her embrace to wipe the tears from my ears. Like a dumbshit, I didn't even question who she was or why she was in our house. Talking to strangers was not the taboo thing it is today, and she just seemed so warm and caring, unlike any other adult in my life.

"Dear boy, dry your eyes. What is your name, sweetheart?"

"Ta, ta...te," I whimpered out between muffled cries.

"Now, Tate, what has you down here all by yourself in such a state?"

"I... I... saw something," tears threatening again. "My dad, he... he... he was hurting my sister," I stuttered, almost if I had dreamed what I saw. "I... I don't know... don't know what he was doing, but she... but she... she was crying." Exasperated breaths between each pause.

"Oh child, this house will make you see things, painful things. It will make you see darkness and only darkness. It will also make you believe that the darkness will swallow you up. But don't you fret. If you ever feel that darkness surrounding you, you just close your eyes and tell it to 'Go away!' And just like that it will disappear."

The woman pulled me in tightly again and vanished out of my arms at the sound of Addie running down the stairs with Hugo closing the gap, shirt half tucked in and fly down.

Addie crashed into me and held me in a firm grip as Hugo made a melodramatic pause before stepping down on the cold basement floor. His eyes were intense, scanning between Addie and I in the darkness, licking his lips, and removing his already half-undone belt – a threat looming as if the goddamn bastard had any right to punish anyone but himself.

* * *

"Now, I don't know exactly what you two little shits think you saw, but I suggest you forget real quick or else you won't be able to remember much of anything after I put you in a coma..."

Fearless and bold Addie screamed out, "I... I... saw you hurting Alex! Tate did not. What did you do to her?"

"Shut up, you fucking retard!"

"What did you do?"

"I said 'SHUT THE FUCK UP!'' Hugo grabbed Addie and pulled her away from me, pelting her with his belt over and over again, as she continued to ask what he did to "our"  
sister.

Like the fucking coward I am, I sunk back farther into the shadows, horrified and trembling. Too paralyzed to cry. But suddenly, the nasally woman before was behind me, whispering in my ear, "Remember what I said, my sweet boy."

Walking forward toward Addie and Hugo with tears brimming, I closed my eyes and screamed at Hugo "Go away!" He stopped just long enough to scoff in surprise.

"What did you say to me, you little shit?"

I looked down at Addie now laying on the floor, sobbing hysterically. My fearless sister had been broken, and I wanted to make him pay.

"That's what I thought." Hugo began to raise his hand high in the air for the next lash, but I reached out and grabbed it, pulling it down with my whole body weight.

"I said, 'Go away!', my eyes locked with his as if we were in some god forsaken Jerry Springer showdown. Tears boiling behind my raw, red eyes and solemn, tear-stained face.

Hugo looked at me with those same eyes that he did when he realized just what I was, the Hellish product of him – the perverted, pedophile, rapist bastard, and Constance – the greedy, murderous, bitch. Yes, I was no doubt their son, and looking into his own eyes terrified him. In the raven reflection, he saw the pathetic, sick fuck he was. And although I was young, I secretly enjoyed the feeling of power it gave me – to bring him to his knees, to make him feel the pain he brought.

* * *

Amidst our slow motion stare down, Addie got up and ran to her room. With that the trance was broken between Hugo and I, and the fire and pure hatred in his eyes returned. Now, he wasn't just battling me, but also himself in child form.

One thrash, two, three, four, on and on... Continuing to scream "Go away!" while crying my eyes out.

I was almost unconscious by the time I heard my mother running down the stairs, shrieking Hugo's name. When she found him standing over me with blood on his shirt and his weapon of choice, all there was was silence and death stares. Then, just darkness.

* * *

After that, I kept even more to myself, afraid to be in the line of sight of Hugo. Although, he had made himself, pretty scarce as well, probably screwing the brains our of whatever he could find.

The basement, the woman, Nora, and her real son, Thaddeus became my refuge and only, albeit imaginary, friends, as somehow Addie became even more resilient, while I grew increasingly introverted. Thaddeus had streaks of meanness, almost like my mother and father, but I sympathized with him because I could understand how he felt.

He was unloved by his mother, Nora, who had favored me over him, and he was trapped to be by himself forever with no one to ever love him. Deep down, although he was a monster, a predator, he just wanted that – someone to either love him or end his abominable existence. And I could relate.

He, like me, was what his parents had made him.


	5. Chapter 5: Blank Pages

It was fall 1983 when things started to get worse, at least for me. Constance enrolled me into a preschool/daycare program so that she and Hugo could attempt to rekindle their romance, which essentially included fucking on every surface in the house. Apparently, seeing him beat the crap out of us had fueled my mother's lust towards him. Either that or she knew what a cheating bastard he was and realized that the only way to keep him twirled around her finger was appeasing his cock. Regardless, Constance and Hugo seemed to be more "in love" than ever, which not only sickened me to my stomach but kind of made me want to vomit up all the family togetherness bullshit that they tried to shove down our throats, as of late.

Family life had definitely made my adjusting to preschool a living nightmare. Not to mention, the first day that Constance dropped me off, she requested that the aid make sure I not spend too much time with the "colored brats." So, I was automatically branded the "bitch's child" among the child aids and many of my fellow students' parents. My stutter and shear apprehension of communicating with anyone didn't help matters either. The only person, who I had ever felt remotely comfortable talking with was Addie because she had been the only person to actually make me feel good about myself. Although, she promised me that school would be fun, largely due to the fact that I could escape Satan and his mistress and make some "normal friends".

However, for the most part, the "normal kids" and I did not get along well. Most of the time, they would spend playing together, I would sit awkwardly in the background with my toe in the dirt, trying for the life of me to understand just how to go up to one of them and articulate a simple "hello." Generally, I couldn't muster up the courage even to do that, instead finding myself hyperventilating, when I'd approach them.

The times that I did manage to build up a "hello", it came out sounding like an exclamation of fear – breathy and high pitched, as my nerves got the best of me. Additionally, it would resemble more that of a question, "Hello?", than an actual salute because I was internally wondering whether or not it was the "right" thing to say, while scolding myself for being such a pathetic moron. My fears were affirmed in my charming classmates' ever so friendly responses, that frequently included staring at me like I was a goddamn alien and/or laughing at me for stuttering.

On rarer occasions, but still too damn many times, my awkward personality would illicit boys and even a few girls, cornering me on the playground and pummeling the shit out of me in true mob fashion, despite the fact that I hadn't bothered them that day. The teacher aids would sit out on the playground taking their cigarette breaks, not paying attention to what was transpiring. Although even when I did come inside from break, the teachers would dismiss my bloody nose or black eye, telling me to stop my blubbering and go see the nurse.

Visiting the nurse was a futile experience though, as apparently word of my bitch of a mother's racist mouth had spread, making the African American lady to whom I reported, scowl out me whenever I came in crying over my wounds. A good majority of the time, she wouldn't even treat me, instead ordering that I go to the bathroom to clean up and return back to class. So, basically I learned that the nurse wasn't worth the time and that the only way I could avoid getting the Hell beaten out of me was avoiding my classmates, who despite their sizes could pack quite the powerful punches.

Normal kids scared the fucking shit out of me.

As a result, I made three rules, in order to prevent incurring any further bodily harm.

Number 1: Never fucking look them in the eyes. Even if they spoke to you, the rule was to just keep walking. In the hallways particularly, should they make eye contact, you were to avert your attention elsewhere. Stare at your feet if the situation called for it. If they DID see you looking at them, run like Hell.

Number 2: Avoid commonly populated areas. This included the lunchroom, the swings, the bleachers – under which some badass 8-year-olds would be spotted frequenting a cigarette or brandishing a nudey magazine - the downstairs boy's bathroom, and the nurse's office, for obvious reasons. This may have led me to eating in the bathroom stalls of the 2nd floor boy's bathroom for several years, but it saved me from a Hell of a lot of beatings.

Number 3: Use your lunchbox, as a shield, and if need be a weapon. Back then, lunchboxes were heavy duty, metal pails of destruction, not the fucking flimsy ass things of today. I can't tell you how many times, my Incredible Hulk lunchbox would protect me from my assaulter's attack. It had a lot of dents in it after all the years, but that thing wasn't only good for carrying your Tasty Cakes.

If I complied with all of these rules, I would walk home bruised and battered 80 percent less of the time. Blood would still be soaking through my shirt or dripping from my face from time to time, but with the awesome parents I had, it would go unnoticed until the laundry had to be done. Then, my mother would burst into my room like a fucking Tasmanian devil, scolding me that "this [would] be the last goddamned time [she] would buy [me] a nice shirt," proceeded by throwing the blood-soaked cloth in my face.

While I did not like school as much as Addie had promised I would, I did enjoy seeing the world outside the iron-wrought gates of our house – the brightly colored paintings that were hung up on the walls of my classroom, the checkered patterns of black and white tile in the hallways, the rainbow assorted colorful lunchboxes with cartoon characters and Star Wars death stars, haphazardly aligned on coat hooks. I loved the sounds of squeaky sneakers in the hallway after it rained and the same rain that pattered on the windowpane, as our teacher droned on and on about coloring inside the lines.

However, my favorite sounds were those of story time, when my fellow classmates would breathe restlessly, while I would hang onto every word that my teacher said. I liked stories because they were akin to an alternate world, where everything could be beautiful, happy, and pure.

I was determined to teach myself how to access this wonderful world of words, so often times, I would spend extra time in the library, grabbing every book I could – tracing the worn but loved spine, inhaling the scent of the print between the crisp and often dogeared pages, staring at the illustrations in awe, and outlining them with my finger.

I was so enamored with the brightly illustrated books, filled with big, bold print because I knew that they were loved. I could literally feel in my hands with every crease in the pages, just how much someone had treasured and adored these stories – the stories that allowed them to escape; to be anyone else; anywhere else. I wondered if the kids before me ever returned from in between those covers or if they decided to stay in world they had created. I liked to imagine that many of them were similar to me, and that they got to run away from all the bad things in their lives: shitty parents, hateful kids, the pressure to be normal. Instead, they were transported some place clean and good.

One of my favorites was a book about the seasons, which I repeatedly checked out and read in my basement hideout. I can still remember the first time I signed it out, anxiously fumbling my library card and scrawling my name in cursive, which I had learned early for my age, on the index card in the back pocket. I couldn't read, but I'd be damned if I couldn't write my name. After I had left the circulation desk, the weight of the book seemed to grow manifold in my hands, indicating one of the few times in my life, that I was holding onto something special.

I would makeup stories and share the books with Thaddeus whenever I brought them home, which was nearly every day. We would spend hours just looking at the pictures, so fascinated with the world outside the boundaries of the house, and both Thad and I particularly enjoyed the book about the seasons.

We'd stare at the glossy pages, full of sunshine and pools, and smile at one another.

"That's how it is here," I'd remark to fill the quiet space.

The next pages would be full of white billowy piles of snow, geometric snowflakes, and icicles, adorned with some cheesy picture of Santa Claus and his reindeer. Next, were the pictures of vividly colored flowers, blooms, and bees, and finally, there was the Fall. Photos of trees changing color, leaves gingerly lulling to the ground, softer and almost purplish skies.

I stared in awe of those scenes, mesmerized by the beautiful colors that never seemed to be seen in Los Angeles.

"I want to live there," I told Thaddeus, who was already drifting asleep to the muffled noises of pages turning and my quiet sighs of awe.

This same event would happen nearly every day that time and my parents allowed.

Nora would frequently find us snuggled together in the basement underneath the steps, and I would awake to find her smiling at us, well really only me. Smiling in return sleepily, she'd come over and cradle me in her arms before ascending the stairs to my room, tucking me in and brushing my unruly, starting to curl hair, out of my face. The sign that my pin straight hair was turning into curls, likely indicating that hormones were on their way.

Yep, my boyhood innocence was soon going to be lost for naught to hormonal rage and rebellion, but for the time being, I relished in the comfort of Nora's warmth. So depraved of love, that I felt that I would never be anything more than the alien the schoolkids saw me as, the monster that my dad feared, or the nothing that my mother made me feel like.

Falling asleep, I would remember Nora's smile and cling to that, not often times without wondering just how much worse Thaddeus felt to be _all _alone. Maybe, he could escape with me into a world between blank pages.


End file.
